Page 138 of Bedeviled

Leaving the grass behind, I step onto the moist earth, the ripe smell of wood and petrichor hanging in the air.

I walk between the tall trees like I’m in a dream. Pine needles and dead leaves crunch beneath my feet, and the boughs brush me as I pass them. I can feel the darkness stroking my skin like a lover, calling to my magic.

At some random place, I pause, my eyes moving to the ground beneath me.

“Hungering Ones.”

I stop and listen, but other than the usual insect noises and bird calls, the forest is silent. My hair stirs in the light evening breeze.

Naturally they’re not around when I actually want them to be.

I gaze down at the ground even as my hand reaches for one of my daggers, the twin set strapped to my waist.

Drawing it, I bring the sharpened tip of it to my pointer finger.

All it takes is a swift, shallow cut. My blood spills forth from it surprisingly fast, drop after drop falling to the ground.

Now I sense something stirring deep beneath the soles of my feet.

“Empressss …”

“You made a deal with me once,” I state without preamble. “Why?”

“We hunger…and you fed us…for many moons…”

I shake my head. “That’s not it though, is it?” I say. “I know a bit more about you. You didn’t feed from me, you kept me,” I say. “Worse—I was once one of your voices. I was a part of you.”

A gust of wind punctuates my words, stirring my hair around me.

“Yesssss…”

I try not to shudder at the horror of it. Softer, I say, “I know what you really want.”

The voices are quiet.

My wound drips, more of that crimson fluid sinking into the damp earth.

“Not blood. Not bodies,” I say. “You want another soul.”

The voices fall silent.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my soul mate inserting herself into trouble.”

I swivel around, and there’s Memnon, his tie gone and the top buttons of his shirt undone. His hair is tousled like he ran his fingers through it many times.

He’s far too wild for the confines of business attire, but damn, does it suit him.

He steps forward, his shoes crunching menacingly over the foliage, shaking his head slowly.

“Yesterday you drank fae wine with the deadliest of enemies, and today you let another feast on your blood, as though they haven’t ripped open the very earth you stand on so they might swallow you whole. I am starting to think, dear mate, that you have a death wish.” As he says it, his eyes alight, and his power spins out of him, enveloping us both into its billowy folds, and I sense that he is deeply angry.

I move to sheathe the dagger I still hold.

“No,” he says, catching my wrist, his voice deepening. “You will need all your violence against my wrath.”

“Funny,” I say, tugging my wrist from his grip and sheathing my dagger anyway, “you’ve talked about liking my anger.” I step in a little closer to him. “But I’ve never admitted how much I enjoy yours.”

Memnon grasps me by the back of my head and, leaning down, kisses me roughly. I can practically taste his anger.